


Gospels

by terma_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-10-01
Updated: 1998-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26501341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Krycek spends a night at Lone Gunman HQ
Relationships: John Byers/Alex Krycek
Collections: TER/MA





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> Author's note: I am very grateful to superbetas Te and Nonie for their kindness, suggestions and corrections. Look guys: it's its it's its— Spike learn good, huh? Oh, and as to the parts that still don't look right —those are all mine, folks.

  
**John  
by The Spike**

  
Mulder brought his prisoner to the Lone Gunmen around nine, shoving the leather-jacketed hood ahead of him through the door at gunpoint. The prisoner skidded a little on the hardwood floor, but kept his balance. A neat trick, Byers thought, for a man with both hands cuffed behind his back. He didn't say anything, though, because at that moment the prisoner looked up and met Byers' gaze. 

//... such _pretty_ green eyes...// 

The thought was a whisper of distant song but before he could wonder at it Mulder spoke: 

"This is Alex Krycek," Mulder said. He jerked Krycek around and propelled him back and down—hard—into Langly's chair. "He's a liar and a traitor and a whore and I'll be back to get him in the morning so he can testify to that." 

The words—the name—all sounded like it tasted bitter in Mulder's mouth. Byers didn't think he'd ever seen Mulder like this with anyone. Hating. Burning with hate. There was violence in the way he touched the man. Violence in the way he unlocked, twisted and relocked the cuffs, securing Krycek to the center-post of the secretary chair. In the way he yanked Krycek's belt from his pants and used it to tie one foot to the chairleg. Still more violence waited, barely restrained, in the white-knuckled hand that held the gun butt just above Krycek's left temple. 

And through it all the prisoner sat passive. Pliant. Smirking. Daring Mulder to...what? What _was_ that look? 

"So what do you want us to do with him?" Langly chimed in, saving Byers from his thought. 

"Yeah," Frohike added. "You want us to interrogate him?" 

Mulder didn't answer. For a moment, Byers felt that Mulder and Krycek were alone together in some tiny, private universe of hate; gazes locked, something almost tangible in the air between them. 

"Just stay the fuck clear of him," Mulder said, finally. He straightened and slipped his gun back into its holster, never for one moment breaking eye contact. "If he gives you any trouble, call AD Skinner at the FBI." 

"Don't worry about that," Frohike said. eagerly. "We'll stand watches. Round the clock surveillance." 

"Whatever," said Mulder. "As long as he's here when I come for him in the morning." Krycek made a silent, smirking laugh that earned him a menacing twitch of Mulder's gun hand. And Byers could see the fight it took for Mulder to break off the war of stares. 

But he did and then he was gone and the three of them were left staring at the man he'd left behind. Who was, for the moment glaring at the closed apartment door, not deigning to look at his erstwhile keepers. Byers, on the other hand, couldn't seem to look away. 

Alex Krycek. 

A big boy, Byers thought. Byers had heard the description, seen the grainy surveillance photos. None of them had come close to indicating the sheer physical presence of the man. Something about Krycek just sang out DANGER and DO NOT CROSS. And yet, like a tourist atop a cliff, Byers found himself drawn to the perilous edge. 

"I want first watch," said Frohike. "So the rest of you clear out and leave him to me." There was a trollish gleam in his eyes but the tough-guy impression wasn't fooling anybody. 

"Dibs on second," said Langly. "There's back to back Corman flicks at midnight on the skiffy channel." They both looked at Byers expectantly. 

Heat rising in his face and Byers could only shrug. 

"Third's fine with me," he said, noncommittal as could be, careful not to fall into the range of those 

//pretty pretty pretty// 

green eyes. 

"I guess I'll go and get some sleep," he stammered and, not waiting to see if anyone was listening, he bustled himself back to his bathroom and threw himself with more passion than usual into his bedtime routine. 

* * *

It had been a mistake to shower though. Not that showers woke him up particularly, just that there was something about being fresh-washed and clean, skin tingling from the sharp hot spray, nose tickled with the spicy scent of soap that made John hyper-aware of his body. Made him—admit it, John—horny as a tomcat. And the newly changed bed-linen didn't help. It had been the one great shame of his teenage years—not simply the need to masturbate, but this impulse to do so into crisp, clean sheets. 

God, even thinking about it made him hopelessly aware of his penis, taut and silky, chafing beneath the smooth cotton of his pajamas. 

Of course he'd outgrown that weakness now. Had 'mastered it, so to speak. Master of his own lonely domain. And where had that come from? Some TV show, no doubt. Langly had the bloody thing on all the time and pop-culture seeped into his subconscious like spilled cola. 

He hated it when his mind ran on and on like this, sleep a million miles away and nothing to do but suffer. Usually, if he couldn't sleep he'd put the time to good use—tidy the files, update the mailing list, surf the milnet for leads. There was no shortage of work to be done. Except it was all out there in the living room where Frohike was standing watch over 

//dark cap of hair, smirk of a mouth, long bow of a neck...// 

Stop! But it was too late. He realized he'd been running his hands up and down the sides of his thighs, cotton pajamas gently abrading him with the motion. 

What was he thinking? He didn't know, but it felt just like that first moment he saw Suzanne Modeski. Like he was some idiotic moth that had no destiny other than to spiral in toward that human equivalent of a flame. Except, of course, this was no Suzanne Modeski. This was a man. A bad man: Mulder's enemy. What had Mulder called him? Liar. Traitor. Whore... 

//...on his knees in front of you, pretty eyes begging, soft mouth around your...// 

Aagh! Byers tore back the blankets and sat up. Ten thirteen p.m. and he was never going to sleep again, was he? He opened his bedroom door cautiously. There were lights on down the hall and he could make out Frohike's low rumble from the living room. He didn't go there though. Headed to the bathroom instead where he took another shower: long this time and very, very cold. 

It helped a little, as did his old teenage diversion of cataloguing everything in his head into an enormous bank of imaginary file drawers. Even so, he tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, and never realized he'd dozed off until Langly came hammering at his door. 

Byers opened his eyes, instantly awake as Langly's head poked in through the open door—rayed with ambient light: 

"Hey, Betty," Langly stage-whispered. "Your turn to babysit Li'l Reggie." Byers looked at his clock: three oh two a.m. 

"Is everything okay?" he asked. Langly shrugged. 

"He snores," he said. "Had to use the headphones or I'd have missed the flick. I left 'em out for you." 

"Thanks," said Byers absently. "I-I'll be out in a minute." Langly shrugged again and closed the door. 

Byers peeled the covers back slowly. Now he was tired. The thought that the prisoner was sleeping filled him with an odd, fleeting disappointment. 

You should be relieved, he told himself sternly. But he knew it was no good; he was half-hard again already. He slipped his bathrobe on against the chill, slipped his feet into the woolly, leather-soled slippers and headed to the bathroom to splash more cold water on his face and brush his teeth. 

* * *

All the lights were off in the house, but the blue-gray flicker of the silent TV filled the living room with odd highlights and shadows. The prisoner was still in Langly's chair; still bound. His position was awkward though: His head had fallen back in sleep, leaving his 

//...sulky...// 

mouth slightly open. His hips had slid forward on the seat so that his right knee seemed strained to tautness against the pull of the leather belt at his ankle; his left leg was stretched straight out in front of him. The resulting sprawl accentuated the bulge in the tight black jeans. Byers felt himself stir again, penis dully restrained under the weight of cotton and flannel. So close... Another step or two and he'd be close enough to feel the other man's heat. Or could he feel it already? His skin felt flushed; heart hammering soft and fast against his ribs. 

Unbelievable. Like some kind of virus that hit him every five years—wham bam gotta have an enemy of the US government. Suzanne Modeski... Alex Krycek... 

I'm losing my mind, Byers thought. He cinched his robe tight enough to hurt and forcibly turned away, planted himself at his own desk. 

He booted up the cobbled UNIX machine. Whine, rattle and hum and the monitor degaussed with a crackle. Byers keyed in his passwords and fired up the modem. No pretty pictures on his screen, but Lynx was good enough to surf the closed, unpretty networks where the real cyberwar raged unmitigated by triple-x sites and lurid binaries. 

Here the only enticements were the ghosts of ghostly data trails—trashed memos, unsent letters. The detritus of secrets, waiting to be found. Byers felt at home in this element. He didn't consider himself a hacker, not by any means. More like some kind of archeologist of apocrypha, digging up potsherds of information, archiving them, cataloguing them until he had enough to reconstitute them in their original form. Usually he loved this work, loved sitting in the dark with only the tap-tapping of his fingers on the keyboard for music; the scrolling of the gray-on-black text, the only movement in the room. But tonight the presence of the sleeping captive kept him restless, distracted. 

Not that Krycek was a noisy sleeper. Langly had been wrong about that. Well, not entirely wrong. Krycek didn't snore so much as moan softly and mutter under his breath; shrug restlessly against his restraints as though the content of his dreams gave him unease but required him to stay quiet about it all the same. 

Still, Byers knew, he could tune the sound out all he wanted, put the stupid headphones on and turn the volume up until his brains liquefied and he'd still be aware of that lean 

//carnal// 

presence across the room. Nevertheless he persisted, forced his concentration into the phosphor gray world behind the monitor enough that he managed to trace a correspondence between two university professors complaining about arbitrary budget crackdowns back to what seemed to be its progenesis—the extra-departmental hiring of a man known to the Gunmen as probable black ops. The interesting questions, of course, were who had hired him and why. Byers was just about to tackle these, when out of the darkness, a sleep-roughened voice said: 

"Hey..." 

Startled, Byers jumped a comical three inches off his chair. He came down hard on his ass and his dignity, looked around sharply. But no one was laughing. 

Krycek was looking at him, eyes glittery in the TV light, face shiny with sweat. Byers swallowed the hammering lump that had leapt into his throat, coaxed his voice up to where he could use it. 

"Is something wrong?" he asked. 

"Yeah," said Krycek. "I've gotta take a piss." He sounded slightly breathless, as if he'd been running. Byers heart sank. And what the— hell—was he supposed to do about _that_! 

"I can't untie you." Krycek bit his lip, shifted painfully. 

"Fucking sadists..." Byers stiffened—at the profanity and the implication. Of course Frohike, playing at interrogator, wouldn't have let him go. And Langly wouldn't have heard him through the headphones if he'd yodeled. And now his own inertia... Krycek was right: they'd been torturing him. 

"Hang on," he said, pushing away from the computer with sudden determination. "I'll get a bucket." 

* * *

The bucket was full of—something—so he ended up using a clean plastic ice-cream tub he'd rescued from the recycling bin. Momentary awkwardness as he positioned himself between Krycek's legs, reached for the top button of the jeans. 

"Sorry," he said and "sorry" again as he fumbled it open and pulled the zipper down. Mild shock to find no underwear, just crisp black curls under his fingers and Krycek sucked air through clenched teeth so he apologized again as he fished for Krycek's penis, eased it out, positioned it over the thin edge of the tub. 

"Hold it," Krycek husked sharply. Honest to goodness butterflies in his stomach, but Byers did what he was told. Amazed. Almost...giddy. He'd never held another man's penis in his hand. It felt hot. Heavy. Silkier than his own and it shivered in his hand like a firehose as Krycek let go. 

Piss hit the ice cream tub like rain on a tin roof. Byers glanced up at Krycek, but the prisoner 

//...liar, traitor, whore...// 

had his eyes closed, face turned away. The stream went on for an impressively long time. Long enough for Byers to worry that the tub wasn't going to be big enough. But eventually it slowed to a trickle and spurt and stopped. 

"Shake it," Krycek said, before he could let go, put the heavy tub down. He did his best, wondering if it was too light, too hard, too many times... He looked up again and met those 

//...oh my...// 

eyes. Krycek was watching him—boldly, immodestly taking in Byers' hand around his penis. Quirking a knowing smile. Byers blushed, feeling as though he'd been caught at something naughty. 

"I'll, uh, be right back," he stammered, stupidly. Then realized that he was still holding 

//thickening// 

flesh in his hand. He dropped it like a hot coal, stood gracelessly. 

Carefully he carried the sloshing plastic tub to the bathroom, trying not to think of that hot swell of flesh against his palm; not to be aware of the sharp juniper tang of the other man's urine. He should, he knew, be disgusted. Uninterested at the very least. 

It would be perverse in the extreme to be anything else. 

He shook his head as he emptied the bucket into the toilet, flushed, rinsed the plastic tub in the bathtub, poured in a little bleach to soak. 

But standing at the sink to wash his hands he couldn't help catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, cheeks flushed as a schoolboy's, eyes bright. 

//So..? Are you?// 

He wasn't even really sure what he meant, but his reflection seemed to understand. His eyes twinkled back at him in the mirror and his mouth curled up in a wicked little smile he'd never seen on himself before. 

Maybe, it seemed to say. Just...maybe... 

Puzzled but oddly pleased, Byers snapped off the light and headed back to the living room. 

The room was still flickering darkness, Krycek still sprawled within his bondage as John had left him. Well, not exactly as he'd left him: Krycek was fully awake now, eyes heavy-lidded, lips moist—half-erect penis lolling against his thigh. Slow, indolent swivel of the chair and 

//whore// 

lust caught fire in Byers' veins with a nearly audible 'whump' like gasoline igniting. It left him breathless. Trembling. 

"Come here," Krycek said. Low, breathy husk of a voice and John took a tentative step toward him. 

"Closer," Krycek insisted. John stepped closer. He was close enough now that he could smell the other man's sweat, the musky perfume of his sex. Like Suzanne Modeski's perfume, it intoxicated him, made his head reel. The bulge under his robe was clearly defined; Krycek couldn't possibly miss it. 

"Show me," Krycek said. And this was crazy. Crazy. But John's fingers were fumbling the belt of his robe open; struggling to undo the button fly of his pajamas. Success and the thin cotton slid down his legs, pooled at his ankles. His erection was an embossment in the white cotton of his Y-fronts. His knees were shaking. 

Krycek had swiveled the seat slightly away so that he was looking up at John across his shoulder. 

//So beautiful...// 

John reached out, ran two fingers along the lean curve of jaw. Long lashes fluttered, swept up as if the touch puzzled him. Lips parted... 

//liar, traitor, whore// 

He slid his hand around the back of Krycek's neck, pulled his head forward. 

Krycek leaned in willingly, pressed his lips to the head of John's penis— no, his _cock_ —and sucked gently through the cotton. 

The contact was ... electric. John found himself gasping, up on his toes, staring at the ceiling. His hand cradling the back of Krycek's skull, arm trembling, was the only thing between him and a comic pratfall flat on his back on the floor. That and Krycek's mouth—breathing hot and cold through the soaked cotton, nibbling at the head, worrying the shaft gently with his teeth, nuzzling into John's aching groin. 

John found he was making little breathy sounds into the air. Whimpering. Wanting suddenly to be naked, to touch flesh to flesh. With his free hand he yanked at his briefs, shrugging off his robe at the same time. Momentary confusion as he pulled his pajama top over his head and then he was gloriously, blessedly naked and pressing his sex against Krycek's lips, feeling them part to let him slide into that hot, soft, slick hole of a 

//whore's// 

mouth. 

Krycek took him deep—or let himself be taken—as John wrapped both hands around that silky skull, shaking in an effort not to grasp like a drowning swimmer as he felt his center of balance shift and slide into the suddenly heavy weight of his cockhead. 

He pistoned clumsily once, twice, again and then unexpectedly found a delicate ratcheting rhythm, each modest thrust winding a glowing wire of pleasure around the capacitor of his spine until it seemed like current was running through his veins instead of blood, building a vast charge of pure scalding lust in his balls and he wondered, crazily whether he was going to cum in a welter of magnesium sparks and liquid metal. 

And he looked down at Krycek, fearless, shameless mouth filled with him, eyes gazing—enraptured, full of wild desire—wanting it, wanting _him_ and, oh god he _was_ coming, or dying or something... realized with dim and helpless horror that he was wailing: 

"Aah...aah...aah," loud enough to wake the dead but it was too late and there was nothing he could do about it anyway but ride the lightening bolt as it flick-flick-flickered between the earth and the sky, a hundred million volts of blinding pleasure at a time. 

Afterwards, still breathless, he excused himself to the bathroom. He listened carefully as he passed Frohike's and Langly's doors but apparently the dead were sleeping soundly tonight because nothing stirred there. 

He quickly threw a little water on his face in the bathroom, wet a cloth with warm water which he brought to the living room. Crouching between Krycek's legs, he swabbed gently at Krycek's messy face, smiling sheepishly as he traced runnels of cum down under the collar of the man's T-shirt. 

"Sorry," he said, blushing in the dark. "It's been a while." 

"Yeah?" Krycek asked, vaguely. He seemed distracted, twitching away from the washcloth like a boy avoiding his mother's hankie, not quite meeting John's eyes. A slight frown creased the bridge of his nose. On impulse, John leaned in and kissed him there. 

Krycek looked up at him sharply, not angry but 

//...surprised?// 

Puzzled, maybe, like he was working something out. He tilted his head slightly, cautiously proffering his cheek—like he had to be able to take it back at any time and say he never had. John kissed him there too, feeling the grate of stubble under his lips. He kissed the corner of Krycek's left eye. Tasted salt there and, not lifting his lips from the skin, skimmed over to run his tongue around the tender whorl of his ear. 

Krycek breathed in softly, but audibly. He hadn't moved, was holding himself rigid enough to tremble under the touch. But he didn't pull away and he didn't tell John to stop. 

So John didn't stop. He still felt loose-limbed and light-headed and it felt so _good_. He turned his own head to the side and leaned in again to steal a kiss from Krycek's open mouth. Tasted himself there and felt that spark, amazingly, rekindle heat between his thighs. 

"Wow..." he breathed into Krycek's mouth. Giddy, he followed the word with the tip of his tongue and Krycek seemed to catch the fire there too because he gasped, leaned into the kiss, returning it like a thirsty man drinking wine. 

John dropped the washcloth, slid both hands around the base of Krycek's skull. Leaned in close. Heat. There was heat between them and John could feel the faint pressure of Krycek's erect cock against his belly. Slowly he broke the kiss but not the contact, mouthing his way down Krycek's jaw, his throat—another gasp—the collar of his shirt. He sat back then, just far enough to pull up the T-shirt, expose the sparse hair, blunt pecs, dark coins of nipple. 

His mouth went there first, reveling in the tiny erection he raised, the shivering contraction of muscle beneath his tongue. Tender bite and another just below and Krycek whispered: 

"Oh..." 

John was way ahead of him. 

Oh, yes... 

Here. Now. Down on his knees between Krycek's muscular legs—one bound; the other bent, foot on the floor for leverage. He rested his hands lightly on the denimed thighs, leaned into it, utterly shameless and nuzzled the denim-framed V of Krycek's groin. The hot satin weight of Krycek's cock brushed his ear, rested on the soft hair of his bearded cheek. Nosing the warm flesh he breathed deep, exhaled slow and hot into the hollow of groin and hip through his open mouth. 

The imprisoned man under his mouth made a helpless, broken sound; arched up against his face. 

Byers glanced up sharply. Alarmed. Delighted. 

"Jesus..." Krycek whispered. John half expected another command. =Take it. Suck it. Do it.= But Alex just looked at him, frowning slightly, his expression not quite expectation, not quite hope. Just.... 

//wanting// 

John shuddered. Desire surged again at the thought of what he was going to do to this man—of what he was about to do, period. He looked down again at the cock bobbing slightly, inches before his eyes. 

Nice cock. Smooth, blunt-headed, curved like the ivory handle of a knife. The slit glistened with a tiny diamond of pre-ejaculate. 

John leaned toward it, pressed his tongue into the shine. Sharp gasp from above, but now he took his time. The fluid tasted salty. Like tears. Felt slippery under his tongue. He followed his tongue down, pressed his lips against the head. Springy flesh jerked insistently against his lips, but John seemed to have found a slow, balletic rhythm and would not be rushed. Not in this. This tasting. This communion of tongue and stranger's flesh. The cock thrummed against his lips, seemed to spread wave after sizzling dizzy wave of lust through him. He could feel it in his own cock. And God he loved the feel of that word in his mind, the way it spiked arcs of want directly to his groin. 

He opened his mouth slightly, let the head slip past his lips. Sucked gently. 

"Ahh..." Krycek sounded quietly anguished. Byers could feel the trapped legs tremble under his palms. He flattened his tongue, rasped it on the underside. Swirled it around the head. Sucked again, less gently, and earned another raw breath. 

The head was slippery all over now, his mouth slick with pre-cum and his own saliva. He tilted his head farther forward, then opened to engulf the shaft —impaling himself in brutal slow motion on that stake of flesh. Exquisite sensation. He felt the cockhead slide past his teeth, bump along the ridged roof of his mouth, skid against the soft flesh of his palate. It slid farther still down into the slick shaft of his throat and he would have taken it all the way but too deep and the tender flesh flinched at the intrusion, gathered itself to make him cough and he had to pull back. He tried again. Same result. The sudden hindrance shook him, threatened to dissipate his confidence. Indecisive, he held the weight of Krycek's cock against his tongue and wondered if life would be worth living if he had to back out now. 

But if Krycek had noticed that the play had changed he gave no sign, only surged up into John's loose mouth as far as his restraints would allow. Wanting it. Like he himself had wanted it. Hard and fast and shameless. 

John felt the wicked smile curl the corner of his mouth again and sucked Krycek in hard... 

"Aah!" 

...fucked his slick mouth up and down along the shaft... 

"ohh...ohh...ohh..." 

...slowing on the downstroke of each thrust to drive the round, blunt head deeper into his own throat. 

"Oh yeah," Krycek breathed and then, deeper, rougher: "Sw-swallow it." The stammer took the edge off the command, but not its effect. John felt the stutter of words like the crackle of a Gauss generator prickling his flesh. He couldn't help it, couldn't stop the long, low moan that slipped out around the edges of the cock in his mouth. 

And like the perfect Newtonian machine they'd become, the moan sparked a thrust and a groan made him swallow and he swallowed again and suddenly the cock wedged down deep into his throat and he was there. The sudden mental image of what he must look like, mouth stretched and spitted around the wide base of the cock, nose crushed against the tight pubic curls... 

He groaned at the wild flare of pleasure the image gave him and the cock in his throat seemed to swell...and 

//Oh god, he's going to come in my mouth // 

and he wanted it, wanted the knowledge of it, the taste of it to take back to his crisp, clean linen every night from now on and... 

Krycek made a raw and strangled sound, bucked once, twice, hard enough to lift his hips off the seat and then he was there too—filling John's mouth. For a moment John had a handle on it, swallowing and swallowing, and then slick pearlescence overflowed the vessel of his mouth; backing up into his sinuses and running down his chin to drip from his beard. 

Reluctantly John pulled himself off the pulsing shaft. He raised his head, let the cock slip from his mouth—surprised by the faint, clean aftertaste 

//Bleach? Almonds?// 

on his tongue. 

Uncoupled, they fell away from each other. Krycek sank back into the chair, breathing hard and shaky; John sat back on his tingling heels, realizing for the first time that his legs had fallen asleep. He uncurled his legs, sat instead, swiping at his lips and chin with his hand. 

After a while, Krycek looked back down at him. Chuckled—a brief, breathy sound that came across as shyness. 

"You surprised me," he said. John found himself smiling wryly back. 

"Surprised _you_?" 

They sat there for a minute, clothes awry; grinning at one another like a couple of peaceable maniacs. Then John started to feel the cold. He retrieved the washcloth, hobbling on pins and needles feet back to the bathroom to rinse and warm it. 

He cleaned up Krycek and himself at the same time, tucking Krycek tenderly back into his jeans, rearranging shirt and hair so he looked less like he'd been ravished. There was still a little bit of the tarnished angel shine left on him, though. It seemed to be part of his essential nature. John started to dress, then stopped and took off the cotton briefs before putting his pajamas back on. He tucked the briefs in the pocket of the robe. 

He realized suddenly that he was ravenous, dry as dust. 

"You want something to drink?" he asked Krycek. "Something to eat?" Krycek started to speak, then met John's eyes. The look on his face was so odd John couldn't figure it out. It looked like disbelief. It looked like pain. 

"What's wrong?" John asked. But Krycek just smiled an odd little half-smile, shook his head as if to banish unwelcome thoughts. 

"Nothing," he said. "That's just... " He shook his head again. Shrugged. "Just...thanks." 

John shrugged back to make light of something that seemed too heavy for their fragile bond to bear and, although he understood it wasn't really simple at all, said simply: 

"You're welcome." He went to the kitchen, hunted a bit and came back with two juice boxes and a banana, which they shared, grinning and rolling their eyes at the absurd symbolic irony of it. 

Then they just sat quiet for a while. John turned off the TV and they could see the sky was graying into dawn and it seemed to John there should be something more between them than there was. But just when he'd worked up the courage to say something, anything about anything at all, there came implacable knocking at the door. 

He turned to look, but Krycek's face was set back into that cool, angry smirk. More than a little frightening, but he knew it wasn't meant for him. 

John rose to get the door, then stopped, leaned down. 

"I hope—" he whispered. 

"Don't," Krycek said, flatly. John nodded. He understood. 

"Okay," he said, but then, shrugging, vaguely panicked at the thought of opportunities foregone: "I just...I'm John. My name is John." 

"What?" 

For a moment the cool smirk slipped and John was looking into wry disbelief. Then Krycek made a sound; a stifled snort of laughter that surprised John with its naturalness; baffled him as to its cause. 

"It had to be," Krycek muttered, shaking his head as though it hurt. "It just fucking had to be..." 

Caught off guard, John smiled back awkwardly, wishing Krycek would let him in on the joke. He almost asked, but Mulder was pounding louder now and already the hard, ironic smirk was setting around the edges of Krycek's mouth. And anyway John sort of understood it wasn't really a joke that could be shared... And then all there was time for was one last quick, stolen ache of a kiss and then neither of them was laughing and John straightened his robe and went to answer the door. 

* * *

K/Byers   
Disclaimer: "I do not intend to make any money off these X-Files characters.."—from Spike's Big Copyright Book of Duh!   
Spoilers: No. Set in the never-neverland between Apocrypha and Tunguska   
Summary: Krycek spends a night at Lone Gunman HQ   
Rating: NC-17 for consensual m/m sex; unsafe exchange of bodily fluids; bondage; metaphorical fireworks and a banana.   
Author's note: I am very grateful to superbetas Te and Nonie for their kindness, suggestions and corrections. Look guys: it's its it's its— Spike learn good, huh? Oh, and as to the parts that still don't look right —those are all mine, folks.   
10/98   
---


	2. Gospels, Acts 4:6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krycek spends a night at Lone Gunman HQ

  
**Acts 4:6  
by The Spike**

  
Door pressed shut so quiet and out in the hallway Alex leaned against the wall, breathing hard. 

Christ oh Christ that was close. Oh, but the stubbled heat of his cheek, the smell of him... faint reek of fear, this morning's cologne and Alex can still smell it on his collar... And fuck that. Fuck _that_ — did he listen? Did he _hear_? That was the point here. 

//And is he going to come rushing out that door any second now and shoot you with your own fucking gun, you idiot. Move. _Move_.// 

So he moved. But out on the street, walking fast, shoulders hunched against the cold, he didn't feel any clearer. All he could do was play the tape over and over in his head. Waiting in the dark. Magnesium sparkle of adrenaline at the sound of the key in the lock. That secret moment when Mulder entered, unaware of him, bent down—coiled spring —and he could still feel the impact of flesh-and-bone in his shoulder. A righteous tackle, solid and clean and they'd gone down. 

Rolled and scrabbled. and when he'd come out on top he'd felt such singing triumph he had to gloat. Had to hold it over Mulder's head because he'd been dreaming that line for nearly a year. 

//I can beat you with one hand you bastard, son of a bitch, cocksucker —oh yeah... // and triumph blown out like a fucking candle. //...how you beat yourself these days. // Like a fucking punch to the heart. Hurt. And fuck fuck... 

//fucking wimp what the fuck do you care if he cares? If he knows? Two points for flinching, take your lumps and move the fuck _on_ Special K... // 

And walking, walking. Long legs eating up the concrete. Hegel Place was a pool of chill darkness—dark facades with warm lights glowing and distant barking dogs. But go where? He'd had a plan, somewhere, but his whole brain seemed to be knocked off its tracks, skewing around in his skull like some kind of crazy machine. Tape machine, won't let him go: 

//I'm not here to kill you Mulder. I'm here to help you.// And he'd been pretty fucking scared hadn't he? Made a joke of his last words, but he was scared. 

//You knew he could feel it right there between the gun and his gut. The end of everything in your hand. One hand. Isn't that how you beat yourself...? Oh fuck _you_... fuck you...// And Jesus, Alexander, get a grip. Stop. Think. Stay alive. 

He stopped in his tracks, reached automatically for his weapon, remembering even before he could stop his hand that it was not where it should be. Shit. He'd really gone too far. But still, the old man's speech had just made Mulder laugh. And he'd realized for the first time that Mulder really had lost it—lost the drive, the lunatic persistence, had given the fuck up. And that just scared the living shit out of him. Didn't know why, but it felt like somebody took a great big ice cream scoop to his guts. Mulder had laughed, really laughed—nice laugh—oh Christ but had all gotten tangled up with the other thing. The other goddamn thing he couldn't get out of his head and he'd—Christ—he'd kissed him. Fucking kissed Mulder and this was nuts... 

Nuts. Standing in the middle of fucking Hegel Place sprouting wood when the whole world was going to hell. 

And fuck the goddamn world and all the goddamn people in it, because all he goddamn wanted to goddamn do was turn around and go the fuck back. 

But, no. Now that he was breathing again. No, he wasn't going to go back. And whoa...the clickclickclick of little heels and, Jesus! Scully! On the other side of the street but Alex was taking no chances, did his fade. Scully. She'd be heading up there now. Or would she just stand outside under Mulder's window, looking up? No. That's what dirty little _Kryceks_ got to do. Pure and holy Scullys never waited, never longed... She'd be up there in a minute and... Jesus...just by being there she'd erase it all. Her thumb on Mulder's cheek. Mulder's arms around her, pressing his face into her hair to rub him off, rub off the kiss—his _kiss_ , his _mark_ —get Scully's lemony perfume on his cheek instead and pretend it was nothing. Nothing. It _was_ nothing. _He_ was nothing. No-one. Nothing but smoke and fucking shadows now. More invisible every day. 

And here he was again. Shadows like old friends and the fucking cold October wind blew right through him. He had hours to kill before he was supposed to meet the old man again. Hours. 

And so fucking wired. The taste, the stubbled roughness of Mulder's cheek still on his lips. Fucking _kissed_... Probably should just hole up somewhere, jerk off, take a shower. Jerk off again. And he could picture it, his own hand stripping his soapy cock, or later, on the grim coverlet with spit—ah shit. Not what he wanted. Not at all. What he wanted...Mulder's hand, those long, strong fingers gentle for a change; that flat, throaty voice right at his ear... 

//beat yourself these days...Isn't that...?// 

Son of a _bitch_... and he hadn't even realized he'd started walking again. Away from Mulder's, thank god. If only the fucking movie would stop. Or go beyond. Except there wasn't anything beyond except his fantasies. Sick fantasies, dreams so good he could taste them: Mulder on his knees. Mulder pressed against a wall. A bank of payphones... no, fuck, another movie he needed to forget. 

"Finish it... Do it to me..." _Begging_ , for Christ's sake. The remembered whine in his voice made him cringe, shove his hand deeper into his pocket. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. And after that, dick in his hand too hard to piss but good and clack of heels, women's shoes—he'd giggled—so surreal—and then the sudden slam, his cheek against the cold tile and the strange cold crawl across his neck...No! God don't go there, Alex—don't. Bit down hard on his lip and pain and copper made it go away. For now. He'd dream the dream tonight. Couldn't be helped. All fucking Mulder's fault. Or not-fucking Mulder. 

Who hadn't pulled away. Whose mouth had sketched something like the echo of a kiss and stayed where Alex had left him. Not moving. Eyes closed. And the crazy freedom of it—his own gun in Mulder's hands, his kiss on Mulder's cheek, the fate of the world hanging between them and everything shining out his fucking eyes as he backed into the shadows—and then something, like a cartoon coyote looking down that third step off the cliff and it suddenly hit him what he'd _done_. Bottom dropping out and he'd gone all cold and heard something like his father's voice from his own mouth: good luck to you my friend. And fled. 

Still fleeing. Walking faster, strides lengthening and then he was running. As if he could get away but, Christ, he could feel it all piling up behind him, just like thunder. 

Thunder. And he didn't realize where he'd been running to until he found himself outside the building and looking up. 

Big, _big_ mistake. But... 

Shit. 

His teeth were chattering, shivers rattling his bones like taser hits, and getting colder every second even if that wasn't why, just... 

//Jesus not alone tonight alone tonight I _can't_...// and even while his brain was still scrabbling like a trapped rat in his skull, his body _knew_ , was moving again—step, grab and hoist and he was climbing the fire-escape, the rough scrape and clang of his boots on rusty iron like the terrifying clank of iron locks—and even so he crouched a long time at the window, staring in, before he could bring himself to rap a knuckle against the pane. 

Longer still for the lump under the covers to stir, to rise blinking and sleep-mussed and stumble to the window to gape slack-jawed and comical back at him through the glass. Alex almost laughed, except it wasn't funny anymore. 

But the window was already opening and John's hand was reaching for him, strong and clean and—Alex slid numb fingers across the upraised palm —so _warm_... 

//Jesus, John, didn't your mother teach you never to take a drowning swimmer's hand? One hand... beat yourself... we're both going to hate me for this in the morning...// 

Sudden sense-memory of that strong, slim hand so gentle on his cheek, his chest, his cock... 

Deserving so much more than...this. But his hand kept right on moving, gripped John's hand tight enough to grate the slender bones as Alex left the cold behind one more time and came inside. 

* * *

_"Acts 4:6: ...and John, and Alexander..."_

4/99   
Disclaimer: I love Alex Krycek and Alex Krycek is not mine... and this story is not actually in the bible either.   
Spoilers: Terma, RaTB   
Summary: Post-kiss Alex angst, formerly a snippet. A companion piece to "John 1:23"   
Rating: NC-17 for blasphemy and ignoble acts   
Thanks: To the lovely lady Ladonna for kind and generous beta: Wile E. was just for you, hon. And to Sue aka Dr. Ruthless for a great idea that saved me from impending novelitis.   
---


	3. Gospels, John 1:23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krycek spends a night at Lone Gunman HQ

  
**John 1:23  
by The Spike**

  
//And how have I gotten here?// John wonders. Standing naked in a not-so-cheap room in the Bethesda Hilton, with his arms draped loosely around Alex Krycek's waist. With Alex Krycek naked in his loose embrace. With the two of them swaying together a little—almost like dancing, but not... no, definitely not dancing—and the solid weight of Alex Krycek's head on his shoulder. Barely a word said between them this time. Krycek had buzzed him up from the lobby, had opened the door looking surprisingly normal, _ordinary_ in casual shirt and sweater, slacks, a piece of paper in his hand like he'd been working. And John, still and always shy in the presence of Krycek's... well, _presence_ —had blushed, like he'd caught Alex at something embarrassing. 

And Alex liked a blush. Liked his shyness. Liked something, because whatever pleasantry, whatever 'hello, come in, sit down' he might have said had dried up and blown away. John had watched it die, had watched the change come over Krycek's face, mouth fallen open, lower lip slick and shiny where he'd licked it, tongue just behind his teeth and John had wanted to see him lick it again. 

And Krycek had grabbed him, one hand fisted just below his collar, sudden grimace of violence, and he'd slammed John up against the wall. Ground against him, leaving John feeling weak-kneed and bullied and still wanting. Air thick in his lungs, hot desert wind of Krycek's breath in his mouth, and Krycek was kissing him, groping him through his suit pants with the door still open. Too much; too fast. He'd struggled, hands pushing away, hips thrusting toward. Managed to turn his head, but Krycek hadn't broken the kiss. Let it smear across his bearded cheek to his ear and a tongue in hard and hot and wet had left John gasping... 

"Wait... wait... the door..." 

Low chuckle in his ear had made him groan, and Krycek had shifted his weight so that he was pinning John to the wall with his left shoulder, right knee. His mouth sliding down, had fastened onto the side of John's throat. Tongue and suction had caressed the pulse point, dizzy sweetness in the unfamiliar sensation. Somehow frightening and not too far from pain. 

"Alex, stop..." But he hadn't stopped. Visceral growl against John's throat, and Krycek's hand had gone to his belt. And John had known then and there that if he allowed it, Alex would take him like this, in the open doorway. And had not known what to do with the rush of heat that followed the thought...or with the thought that followed the heat: 

"Do it." 

Good God. Had he spoken that aloud? 

Even now he isn't sure. Even now, with Alex Krycek nestled like a lover against his shoulder, he's afraid to ask. Ashamed—not so much of his own desire, but of the adolescent quality of it. Do it. Take me. Make me your slut, Alex... Make it all your fault. And when had he started to feel this guilt, anyway? 

Not the first time, that was certain. That had been something pure, intense. A liberation for him. That taking and giving—that sense of his own power, somehow; his reality in the world. No. It had been after that. The first time Alex had come back, maybe. 

Knocking at John's window one windy October night, pulling John from sleep and stumbling in off the fire escape, bringing in the wind and the cold and a swirl of dying Autumn leaves. Bringing in the high sharp tang of fear and something terrible and bright sheening his eyes. 

"I need a place," he'd said, his voice even, despite the manic gleam. 

"You can't—" John had begun, but Alex had cut him off. 

"Just a couple of hours," he'd said. "Go back to bed, John." And somehow John had. And of course it had been useless. He'd lain there, scared and tingling, fully aware of Alex Krycek sitting silent in his reading chair in the dark; smelling his scent, tasting his cock again, imagining the weight of it on his tongue. And getting hard—his face burning, burning in the dark—he'd finally spoken up: 

"Do you want to...get in the bed with me?" John remembers the silence that had followed, and Krycek's tight reply. 

"That's not a good idea." And somehow, despite the disappointment, that had been okay. 

"Okay," he'd said and resigned himself to it. It was right. It was what he was used to. He'd turned over onto his side, let some of the building tension go. Had almost fallen into sleep when there was a rustle, and the bed dipped and Alex Krycek was sliding in under the covers, spooning up against him. Fully dressed—still-cold denim against his pajama'd thighs and an arm around his waist. 

And what to make of that? What to have made of any of it? Feeling aroused but strangely shy. Like any move on his part would break this fragile thing that he wanted. Ask Alex Krycek and he would run. Let him come and he was like a wild coyote, drawn to the sound of man and the scent of flesh and the mesmerizing flicker of the fire. Well maybe not quite so romantic as that, but still... And so John had simply lain there, passive and open, silently willing Krycek to want him again. 

And, after a while it had become clear that Alex did want him. Or want something. Krycek obviously hard against John's ass, but making no moves. And John remembers wanting to be touched, the strange wall between them and wondering if it was Mulder. 

And has any of that changed since then? God, Mulder. He _still_ wonders if it's Mulder. If he's Mulder-lite. Mulder with the lights off. But in all the times since Alex has never asked him to shave his beard. And he's never had to come up with an answer to whether or not he would do it. He knows he would have done it then. 

Oh, yes. Then, that mad night. The state he'd been in. Thinking he'd resigned himself to this unbearable chastity: _pretending_ it was tolerable, maybe even good enough—until that hand spread across his belly, moved. The sensation had been overwhelming. He'd arched uncontrollably into the touch, thrown his head back, wanting it so badly his 'ohh' had come out voiced and sounding like a sob. 

But Krycek had shushed him. Turned him over on his back, hot mouth on his throat and that hand roaming his chest, belly, groin—skinning up the pajama top, tugging open the cotton fly. Stripping him naked. Touching him, tender and thorough and relentless. 

He's still relentless, John thinks, feeling the solid shift of muscle and bone under his hands. A juggernaut cut loose among the fleets. An inexorable force whose course is plotted against some inner compass no-one else has ever seen. John's come close, he thinks. He's followed Alex's career better than anyone. Better than even Mulder, who only seems to notice Alex's existence as negative space in the circle of light. John has followed Alex everywhere the global net has allowed, seen things Mulder could never have imagined. He wonders how much Alex knows he knows. He wonders if Alex is afraid to ask, or if he just doesn't care. He's never known. Not now, not that night. Writhing under Alex Krycek's solid weight, the wind outside battering against the window, sending silver ghosts and leafy shadows cat-crazy back and forth across the room. He'd tried to take some part in it, something beyond surrender. Krycek was still fully dressed. John tugged at the nylon mock-neck. Ineffectually at first, Alex evading his efforts, maneuvering to pin his arms, washing away his will with that suckling mouth. 

But he'd had a will then, hadn't he? He'd managed to come up for air sometime. Had wanted enough for himself to keep trying so that when Alex had finally pushed off him to roll him back onto his belly he'd been able to act, reach up. Draw the other man down for a kiss of his own. And God, how Alex had opened to him. Their mouths had melted together, and he'd felt so strong. 

Not triumphant. Strong. Like he could give Alex Krycek something that he actually wanted. 

"Alex...?" he says, abruptly, taking himself by surprise. He doesn't even know what he intends to say. But Alex is already shaking his head on the crook of John's neck. Arm and half-arm tightening on his waist. 

"Don't talk, John," he says. 

"Well, at least you know it's me," John says. Bitter. The sound of it is bitter. The taste of it is vile in his mouth, and he is shaking, suddenly—cold with rising rage. He pulls away from Krycek then, or tries. Krycek holds on to him, exerts what feels like mastery. 

"Let me go," John hisses through clenched teeth. And Alex Krycek's head comes up and he looks at John, frowning a little and lets him go, spreading his hands to show his lack of ill intent. But he doesn't stop looking into John's eyes, and something hard and familiar hovers at the corners of his mouth. John knows that smirk. He used to think it was Alex's sharpest weapon—now he knows it's just his shield. 

And that was something else that used to belong only to Mulder—since when had Alex needed a shield with _him_? The realization pulls the plug on his anger, drains him. He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. 

"Sorry," he says, softly, wanting to erase that look. "Sorry..." Too late. 

"Problem, John?" That voice, all lightness and aggression now. None of the growl. And how can he ask what he wants to ask when he knows he won't like the answer? If he doesn't ask, he can just pretend he doesn't know for sure. 

"I should go," John says. "I... I probably shouldn't come back." That look. No, not that look. Another, something tightening around Alex's 

//ohgodstillsopretty// 

eyes. Things shifting under the surface, the green malachite crack'd to reveal a tiny vein of fierce green light. Gone in a second and Alex is _Alex Krycek_ again, face bland and smooth as a stone angel. Alex Krycek shrugs. 

"Whatever you want, John." Turns away. John feels the sigh hitching at his chest, tugging things around in there. He lets it out too soft to hear. 

//What I want...// 

He'd thought he had everything he wanted on that strange cold October night. Alex's hungry mouth on his, Alex's solid weight over him— leather and denim chafing his naked skin. Alex, turning him. 

But he'd wanted something else even then, hadn't he? 

"Wait," he'd said to Alex. "Let me..." And Alex had looked at him— that strange, painful _puzzlement_ in his eyes. Frightened longing that made John want to shake him, _tell_ him for God's sakes—how can you not know this is real? 

But of course he hadn't told. Couldn't. Not in words, anyway. His body, though, waxed eloquent. He'd undressed Alex Krycek then. Or tried. Slowly, tentatively, but just as relentless in his own way, the gentle lick of quiet water on stone. Pushed and peeled away the layers to the tender flesh beneath. And what he'd found—Alex's skin as silky as he remembered it—hot velvet over blunt muscle. Trembling at the touch of John's fingers, his lips. Taste and smell intoxicating: salt and sharp sweat—his Alex had been afraid tonight—but even the smell of fear was aphrodisiac. 

And Alex had looked so lost. Straps and buckles under the rucked-up shirt and the sudden jerk away. 

"Don't..." John had cried out and looked up to see Alex's face gone hard, so hard around the eyes. Everything suddenly crystallizing around them, turning brittle and deadly sharp. 

Deadly. Shock had washed him, cut through his lust. And when had he learned to forget there was a killer in the room? Had he ever been able to remember? 

"Alex...?" John asks. His voice so soft and dry it feels like powder on his tongue. Alex's back is to him now, bending over papers on the hotel-room table. Muscle, bone and skin. No scars. He doesn't turn around. 

"You still here?" 

Still here. Always here. It isn't even a place anymore. He just carries it with him. And, heavens, John Fitzgerald, are those _tears_ pricking at the corners of your eyes? John wants to whang his head against something hard. 

Here, he thinks at Alex fiercely. Have it all—the keys, the castle, all the alligators in the moat... 

"I want to know," he says. Alex gives a snort of not-laughter. He looks back at John over his shoulder //good shoulder whole shoulder// and then turns to face him, leaning back against the table. 

"Are you asking if I love you, John?" he says. So flat, so cold, on the razor-edge of mockery. But hell, Camelot is already burning, the fields in flames. 

"Yes," says John. Long stare, quick quirk of Alex's jaw and sudden _push_ forward. Adrenaline rush at the aggressive grace of it and John almost breaks for cover. Too slow, too late and Alex's hand catches the back of the neck. Strong fingers dig in hard, pull John to him. Faces touching, nose-to-nose. John's heart is hammering, hammering... 

He wants to close his eyes against Alex's searchlight gaze. Those eyes, dark now, flat, a thumbswidth from his own, are terrifying. Still send blood rushing to his cock, which rolls up along his thigh, nudges hot flesh. The pressure on John's neck increases, and Alex's tongue snakes out to part John's lips. So soft. Soft kiss of lip to lip, and John kisses back, suckles on that tongue. Alex pulls his mouth away, presses his forehead to John's. 

"Ask me to fuck you instead," he says. Cold shot like ice water drenching just under the skin and John's lazy cock is _hard_. And is that happiness or despair pooling behind his eyes? He shakes his head, not no but... 

* * *

"Don't..." John remembers his own voice, so reedy, still echoing on the cold night air. Could it have been something so thin as that kept Alex there, within arms reach? Or had it been only that Alex was just... lost, cut adrift enough to waver? 

Waver between what he wanted and what he _had_. 

"I... _know_ ," John had said, nearly voiceless, struggling with the awkward words. "What they did to you... I know...this..." He had reached up, run his fingers over the bulky strap. Watched Krycek— Alex Krycek— _flinch_. Oh, God, he never wanted to see that again. Nor the flash of rage that followed hard. 

"You _fucking_..." Hissed at him and Alex's iron grip on his throat, squeezing, grinding. John had known quite clearly that he was going to die. His own hands scrabbling, heels silently drumming the mattress. Useless. And then let go. John lay there, gasping, watching the not-killer reassemble itself in Alex's shattered expression. 

Trying to assemble sense himself from the whispered words Alex had cursed him with as he strangled: " _told_ you fucking _told_ him fucking..." 

"Alex..." he'd croaked. 

"Shut up," Alex had said, cold and quiet as sod peeled off a grave. And Alex had stared down at him from above—his cock never flagging in the v of his open fly, his eyes utterly opaque—and then swooped down, mouth to his mouth and murmured. "Don't talk, John. Just..." And kissed him and kissed again. And let John kiss him back and touch and opened to him just like that. Like lovers. For a while at least. 

And then Alex had pulled away and turned him over, slid a hand under John's belly and lifted John's hips. 

"I really want to fuck you now," he'd said. And John had felt another tidal rush and thought: //mygodmygodmygod// and could only moan his yes and rub himself, wanton, against the rough denim of Alex's thighs. His first time, so strange, so deeply aroused and ashamed and thrilled and...and... 

Alex had made it so _good_. Talking to him, bringing out lube and condoms—had he planned this? John remembers wondering and later, the answer had come creeping in draped in all his doubts. No, he'd planned _something_ , but something _else_ , somewhere _else_ , with someone... 

Oh, but at the time he'd felt so...cared for. Alex's weight on his back, that one hand gentle and ruthless at the same time. Fingers on him. At him and then //godmygod// inside him. Strange, wormy twist and ache and then stroking lightning. 

"Oh my god my god..." Praying. Really praying, because oh god oh god he was going blind, going deaf, going mad. He couldn't feel anything except the parts where he and Alex joined. So _good_. And unbearably better still when Alex slid his fingers out, replaced them with his cock and thrust... 

* * *

"John?" Low in the throat and Alex's breath is liquid, warm across his lips. Always sweet, the exhalation richer than air. And: 

"I love _you_ , you know..." John says. "I know..." He shakes his head, forehead grinding a little against Alex's. "It doesn't matter if you don't." Well, that's a lie. What he means is, it won't stop me if you don't, but he wants to make this as easy as he can. Alex's eyes close, blink up at him. Close again, stay shut. The hard hand on his neck flexes, flexes again, angling for a better...grip, he guesses. 

"Just ask me if I'll fuck you, John," Alex says. He doesn't sound angry really, any more. Mostly tired. All of them are getting tired. John too. And it still makes him blush to say such things, but: 

"Fuck me, Alex?" 

Alex Krycek opens very pretty eyes indeed, and very bright. 

"Yeah," he says softly, shrugging. "Always. Yeah..." 

* * *

_John 1:23 "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness..."_

4/99   
Disclaimer: This story is not actually in the bible, nor is this story intended for any purpose other than the enjoyment of those who enjoy such stories.   
Spoilers: Terma, vague for RaTB   
Summary: John and Alex talk, and don't talk things out; an angsty follow-up to "John"' companion piece to "Acts 4:6"   
Rating: NC-17 for good measure   
Thanks: to my favourite wild coyoteluvin' chick, Ladonna, for speed!beta in the face of burning dinners.   
---


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